


Gone

by Gamergirl_exe87



Category: Homestar Runner
Genre: (Because of how SB treats SS), Also some things might possibly be interpretted as suicidal thoughts too so just be careful, Implied self harm if you squint, Other, mentions of abuse, mentions of alcohol use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-06-12 06:28:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15333840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gamergirl_exe87/pseuds/Gamergirl_exe87
Summary: Fed up with his brothers constant mistreatment, Strong Sad decides to run away.  With his friends in a panic, and Strong Bad's sudden realization that Strong Sad was the only one keeping the house from falling into disarray, Free Country, USA, is turned upside down.  Meanwhile, Strong Sad makes an unlikely friendship with a mysterious girl...(Des. viable to change as I write, I haven't really thought everything yet, and I have already made a change in my original plan.))-Every other chapter changes from what Strong Sad is doing to what the citizens of Free Country are doing.





	1. How to Vanish

Of course, he would take the contents of the box under his bed. Though few, they all were of great value to him. The video where he and his brother actually got along in. So was the picture. Back then, he would've never thought he'd be estranged from him the way he is now. The snow globe, which was the only happy thing he really owned, was there too. He had never been that happy of a person, but he supposed that's why his name was Strong Sad instead of Strong Glad or something like that.  
Then there was the card. The card was extra special. It was from his seventh birthday, and it was from Strong Bad, of course. Strong Mad wasn't very literate, so his wasn't very sensical, much less legible. But Strong Bad has a fairly good vocabulary, as far as the three of them go. Of course, there were several misspelling, and it had its share of insults, including a threat of being punch later, which he remembers grimly. Strong Bad couldn't hit as hard when he was a kid than he can know, at least. His favorite part of the letter was that his mom had made Strong Bad write it. Man, he missed his mom so much. Even when his brother were mean to him, she was always there for him. Unfortunately, she had died later that year, so he held onto the letter to remember her.  
His brothers and him were never the same after that. Strong Mad had become more sensitive than before, and, although he likes to put up a tough, angry exterior, he falls to pieces very quickly when faced with the possibility of being left behind again. Like the time they couldn't find The Cheat because he was under the grill. Strong Mad had broken down right then. Strong Bad began to push away everyone, especially Strong Sad.  
Strong Bad doesn't really have any close relationships with anyone anymore, except maybe with The Cheat. His brother became quite obsessed with being the best, too. Perhaps it was compensation, in his mind; a secret yearning for people to like him, to the point of mock narcissism. He copied anyone he found cool, and found that people seemed really cool when they bashed things that were even remotely related to geek culture. So, Strong Sad found that not only had his brother alienated him, but Strong Bad also put up a facade of hate around Strong Sad that he fed into so much that the hate began to manifest into his mind, and the fauslity of the hateful thoughts faded into reality. So Strong Sad grew into the unloved, whiney little brother that he was now.  
And even now, with the medication, and the pill, and the occasional therapy session, Strong Sad still could not seem to get any better. Perhaps he now hated the prospect of being happy after everything, or maybe it was the fact that the methods he took wouldn’t actually uproot the problem of his older brother’s hatred-turned-abuse. Not that he really cared what happened to him anymore. Nobody cared, and he knew that, and he simply decided that they were right. It would not be such a constant in the opinions of his so-called friends if it wasn’t true. So it must have been true. So he would take his prescribed medicines of antidepressants and something he used for anxiety, and would also down a painkiller for good measure, before he started his day. Of course he noticed that a painkiller soon became just a few painkillers, and then grew to “some-but-not-a-lot” of painkillers. And now, as he sat quietly on his bed that he lies to playfully, yet woefully refer to as his “Deathbed,” he was on so many that he could hardly feel at all. He hoped he was dying, yet he was almost certain that with his luck, he would continue to do this day after day until he finally did die, which he was sure would end up being a long time from now, just so life could gloat about it to his face for as long as it could.  
It must have been the foggy haze he was in that prompted the thoughts first. If it’s so bad here, why don’t you find some place better? He had wondered on it greatly since the moment it popped into his mind. A provocative little voice in his head created different scenarios in his head until Strong Sad had decided on the certainty that he would listen to the voice. He now had the box in his bag he had, which held on to the only things that Strong Sad really owned, besides the CD player, which was too big to bring, to his dismay, and the furniture, which honestly he only had because Marzipan pitied him enough to not let him sleep on the floor anymore. Strong Bad would never get him furniture, of course. Strong bad would also steal large amount of Strong Sad’s money, so he only ever had enough for small things, such as his safety packed away Sloshy poster, his Sloshy t-shirt, a gray shirt, a white shirt, a couple pairs of gray pants, two books, and some earphones that he took very careful care of.  
A swirling feeling of excitement and nervousness rose in him. He had began silently packing around the few moments of light left right before sunset turns over into twilight, and by the time the light blue and violet hues had gradianted into a dark blue and black blended skyline, he was done. He carefully gauged time on his alarm clock, which also would not be making the trip. Hours crawled on, resentfully leaving behind small dashes of hesitation and extra time to have second thoughts in its wake. What second thoughts could he really justify, he didn’t know. He needed to get out, and it sure wasn’t going to be that time would set him free without him taking action. Finally, the analog clock read 11:45. He knew that Strong Bad would be asleep by now, between the dull television programs that aired at this hour he would undoubtedly be forced to watch or do nothing, and the many beers his brother would have.  
Silently he slipped down the stairs. He was wary not to wake his brother who slept in the basement below as he crossed the living room. He had encountered drunk Strong Bad many times before, but now was not a good time for a run-in with his already irrational older brother. He made his way to the kitchen area. He took a moment to grab a cereal box. He probably would need it. He risked giving it a gentle shake. It sounded only half-way full. Oh well. He quietly maneuvered it into his bag as quietly as possible. He hoped to whatever God may be out there that his brothers would get more food once they realised he wasn’t there to do it for them. He wasn't sure why their well-being meant so much to him after everything they put him through (Strong Bad especially), but he supposed that family will always be family, and that love is unconditional. Unconditional to the point that even years of abuse could not usurp it.  
He slipped out the front door. He was amazed that he actually managed to escape the hell hole of a house unscathed. The stars sprinkled the night sky, each seemed like a possibility that hope was here. So far away, but still visible. Not that he was one to reach a hand out for hope. He was more of the type that inched towards it, and if it didn't lash out, he would gently cradle it in the palm of his hand and keep it at an arm's distance, full of fear and wonder. The crickets resounding all around him sang a song to his new found freedom. The grass bent under his toes as he walked, cool and comforting. He did not know where he was going, nor did he care. He didn't even care if he was just find a place to die in the end. As long as he was out of that God-forsaken house, he was okay with living through a thousand slow and painful deaths.


	2. Confused and Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strong Bad wakes up and notices some differences- Strong Sad is not here to help him do things!

Strong Bad yawned as he pushed himself up off the couch. In the short time he spent up last night, he must have slammed one too many cold ones, as indicated by the pounding in his head. This was not a common occurance; Strong Bad likes to think that he’s a mostly responsible drinker. Still, things like this happened more often than he’d like to admit. No matter how often it happened though, he always reminded his fans and friends to drink responsibly whenever they would drink. He’s cool enough to know that constantly getting drunk is not good. The proof could be found in Coach Z, who was a known alcoholic, and the least cool person he knew. Well, maybe besides his whiny kid-brother Strong Sad. He thought about it a moment. Nope, Coach Z is even a bigger loser than Strong Sad, he decided. Coach Z was probably a record-setter for loserness.  
Uhg. He needed something for this headache. Strong Sad definitely would know where something for this kind of thing is. And what the something for this kind of thing is, too. He dragged his feet along up the basement stairs and into the kitchen area, where Strong Sad usually was in the morning. Strong Sad was nowhere to be found. He glanced at the clock which read 12:36. He supposed that past noon wasn’t exactly morning time, and he knew that Strong Sad didn’t typically leave his room for lunch for fear of being punished for his ultimate lame-itude. Still, he wanted something for this headache. So, he trudged up to the second story, his mind still muffled by grogginess. He wasn’t going to knock on the bedroom door, just barge on in. He prepared to demand something for his headache, on threat of more punches than usual, but his room was oddly empty. Was he at Marzipan’s house? Oh he was gonna get it when he got home! Taking off without a note or something. He was probably playing a board game with her. Or helping her with gardening. Or something of equal nerdiness.  
Oh well. He was getting something for his headache either way. He clumped back down the steps. The telephone was in the living room. He picked it up and dialled Marzipan’s number. Ringing… Ringing… “Hello?”  
Strong Bad sighed in frustration. The familiar, goofy voice was not the voice he wanted to hear. “Homestar, I called Marzipan, not you. Why did you answer?”  
“I just like to spend time with my girlfwiend,” Homestar explained, “And Marzipan is busy painting. So I answered the phone for her.”  
“Oh. Uh. Okay. Well, tell Strong Sad to come on home right now.” Strong Bad commanded with an air of unspoken leadership.  
Homestar paused for a moment. “Strong Bad, Strong Sad is not over hewe.”  
Strong Bad was taken aback at that. “He has to be over there,” He argued, “He’s not here, so he has to be over there. He has to be there so I can send him home and get something for this dang headache I have.”  
“Well, he’s not hewe. Sowwy,” Homestar replied bluntly, “But some Advil will probably help, if you have any of that.”  
“Well… Ok, if you say so. He is going to be in so much trouble whenever he gets home!” Strong Bad relents, “Oh, and, thanks for telling me that the something I need is called Advil.”  
“No pwoblem!”  
“See you man!”  
“Good bye!”  
Strong Bad hangs up the phone and groans as he climbs up the stairs once again. He drags his feet to the bathroom. He opens up the medicine cabinet, and searches for the bottle labeled Advil. He opened it, shook a pill into his hand, and swallowed it. He noticed that the contents seemed low for a bottle that appeared pretty new compared to the rest of the bottles in the cabinet. He shrugged it off. That probably didn’t actually mean anything… Right?  
The day continued to drag along without any signs of the elephant-ankled kid. Strong Bad was not the type to worry about anything, far from it, especially since it’s Strong Sad, but now he could feel a nagging in the back of his head. He didn’t care about Strong Sad, he told himself, he only had an annoyance that he had not yet returned. And he also supposed that he was a slightly concerned that his favorite punching bag was nowhere to be found. He waited late into the night for his infuriating and disobedient brother to walk through the door, so he could pummel the tar out of him. He eventually slipped into slumber, although he was still mixed up in his own anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, he is going to be super confused when he wakes up!


	3. A Haunting Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the title. You'll get the pun as you read.
> 
> ((This chapter takes place the same day as the events of chapter two.))

Once he was in the next town over, he knew he’d be a little more safe now. There were more brushy areas around this town. By the signs he saw, this strange, new town was called Painted Bunting, USA. He thought that naming a town after a bird seemed pretty stupid, but hey, painted buntings were really pretty birds, he supposed. A bit too colorful for his taste, but it would do. His main goal was to find a spot that no one could find him, and just hide out there until he could get a job or something, and gather up enough money to live somewhere. He wasn’t entirely sure if that’s how it even worked, but he could try. Thoughts and emotions kept colliding and making it difficult to really think of most anything. Fear kept telling him to run even further, even though he was sure his brother wouldn’t bother to look for him at all, much less in the town over. An excited feeling was pushing him to do anything that came to mind as long as it was furthing how lost he was. The sad feeling was telling him to give up, and go home, or better yet, not to go home, and just stay here until he dies. That was nothing out of the ordinary for him, though.  
The cool sidewalks of the small neighborhood guided him to whatever would await him here. The sun had begun to rise, and many houses were silhouetted against the pink and orange shades of the morning, each illuminated with thin, golden outlines. He would have thought it was beautiful, if he liked colors anymore. Now, all this was just attacking his senses and he would’ve liked to have found some dark place like a forest or a house by now. He supposed it was the drawback to his newfound freedom, and he wasn’t about to trade that out for anything, even if the sun hurt like hell, and even if the medication was beginning to wear off, and he wasn’t sure how much he had with him. Not to mention, a place to sleep would be nice, too. He had gone many nights without sleeping. He once stayed up for an entire week. Then again, he could also sleep for a week. His sleeping habits were pretty contradictory and unorthodox. But no matter how long he could stay up alone in his room, he had been walking all night. Not to mention the dizziness he felt whenever he would take that many painkillers had been his main driving force, and now that it was starting to wear off, he just felt extremely lethargic.  
“Hey mister!” Squeaked a voice behind him. He turned, and saw a boy behind him, holding a basketball. “Mister, you are heading towards Scary Street. I haven’t seen you before, so I’m guessing you don’t know, but people here don’t just go down Scary Street.”  
Strong Sad replied annoyed, “Well, the sign says that this is actually Raven Street. And I haven’t seen you before, and I’m guessing you don’t know, little kids don’t usually play outside right at sunrise.”  
“I always come out here to practice basketball as soon as I wake up,” the kid retorted, “And we call that block of Raven Street “Scary Street” because of the spooky house over there. It’s a few blocks away from here, but maybe you can see it?”  
Strong Sad looked over where the boy was pointing. He didn’t see anything. “Kid, I’m busy. I have no time for your pranks!” he scolded angrily. He continued on his way.  
“Don’t call me ‘kid,’ my name is Blake,” the kid scowled, “And I’m telling the truth. They say it’s haunted, and if you walk past it, the spirits with it might pull out your soul through your ears and cannibalize it!”  
“Blake,” Strong Sad replied, “There are a few reasons why what you just told me won’t stop me. One, I think haunted stuff is cool, and now I just want to see this house. Two, I have tried to contact ghosts many times and have failed every time. Although ghosts are real, I doubt that I’ll ever see one because they always avoid me. Three, I don’t care if my soul gets cannibalized. I just don’t.”  
“Oh,” Blake responded dully. That last point was rather depressing, and Blake needed a moment to process it.  
Strong Sad continued his way down Raven Street, both slightly bothered that the id was probably just a huge liar, and intrigued of what he might find. There was a slight curve in the street where a large tree grew, obscuring the view of what was around the corner. When he passed it, he stopped dead in his tracks. Around the tree was house. The grounds around it were unkempt, with a couple of twisted around trees growing branches every which way, and grass a foot high that was still bedraggled with a handful dead leaves from last fall, though it was now midsummer. The house itself was white with chipping paint revealing a sickly pale tan beneath. The windows were black, and there was a fine layer of dust over them, concealing the inside from view. The shingles were a purplish gray color, and a few had slipped from their place and were now drooping crookedly in a very pathetic fashion. It looked like it either had two stories, or one story and a sizable attic. So the kid was telling the truth; there was a “House on Spooky Street” here. It wasn’t really that over the top, though. Sure it was rundown, but it wasn’t over the top spooky. There was no lock on the door. The windows weren’t boarded up. There was no ominous warning posted on the door, or on a sign on the lawn. It was just a house that was really messed up, and probably used to be really pretty in its prime. He didn’t feel scared around this house, he felt pitiful and sad for it.  
It really wasn’t that bad of a house. He didn’t feel a presence around it. There was no chill in the air, nor a sudden feeling of uneasiness or feeling of being watched that most paranormal experts say indicates the presence of a detached ghost, let alone a hostile one that is active. He was quite a fan of paranormal investigators, as a firm believer in ghosts. That kid might have helped Strong Sad with one thing, though. The sun was awful bright by now, and it would only get worse from here. This house is right here, clearly unhaunted as far as he could tell, and no one would bother him here. He just hoped that the house wasn’t private property or something. He checked to make sure no one was looking, just in case, but the sleepy town of Painting Bunting still seemed to be at peace here, thank God. Hopefully, there was only one person like Blake in this neighborhood.  
After making sure he was alone, Strong Sad did something that would’ve made any citizen of Painted Bunting cry out in abject horror: He walked up to the door, and gave it a pull. The door opened quite easily to his surprise. He stepped inside and closed it behind him.just enough light came through the dust suffocating the windows for him to be able to fish the flashlight he had brought along with him. Flicking it on, he found that that house was fully furnished and everything, like the last person to live in it left suddenly, and left everything behind. Kinda like I did… He thought to himself, with a small pang of guilt that he immediately abandoned. He would feel guiltless about this decision; he knew it was good for him, and he wasn’t going to feel bad about it.  
The door seemed to lead into a living room type area. There was a pale blue couch against the wall. About a foot and a half away from it was coffee table, which was also glazed over with dust. The room was rather small, and the only other thing in it was a shelf that was lined with ceramic figurines. As unsettling as this all was, and as eager he was to explore the rest of the house, the lethargic feeling over him was dragging at him, and all he really wanted to do after walking all night was sleep. Of course, he knew it was pretty stupid to enter a house that someone said was haunted and just go to sleep right away, but what else could he do? And even so, like mentioned before, the house didn’t really feel haunted, and you can usually sense these kinds of things. Besides, Strong Sad did not fear death, and if his soul got cannibalized, he honestly would just welcome it. He laid down on the couch, which kicked up a small cloud of dust underneath him. It didn’t really bother him. After everything, the extensive activity all night, and how long he had been awake for, and his frazzled emotional state he was constantly in, it was rather easy to fall asleep, even in a strange house rumored (but unlikely) to be haunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit different than my original plan for this chapter, but this idea popped into my head yesterday night (I meant to finish then, but got side track) and I liked it so much more than my original idea. I think my original plot idea is going to take quite the turn of events now!  
> -  
> What if I just posted questions at the end of the chapters for you to answer in the comments? Here's this chapter's question: Do you believe in ghosts? Personally, I'm a believer!


	4. The Dryer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty lighthearted tbh.

“Stwong Bad, why are your clothes all wet?” Homestar asked his friend.

Strong Bad was in a worse mood than usual today.  “Because,” he growled, “Strong Sad still hasn’t come home home, and he’s the only one who knows how to operate the dryer!”

“Oh,” Homestar giggled, “I thought you went swimmin!”

Strong Bad groaned at his sort-of-friend’s stupidity.  He swore that this kind of stupidity is going to get Homestar killed some day.  Or at the very least, get him in a lot of trouble.

“Marzipan says she’s keepin a lookout for the elephant boy.  She says that it’s very concerning, whatever that means. Concerning.  I think she made that word up.”

Strong Bad sighed.  “Yeah. Sure. It’s made up.”

“I knew it!” Homestar cried out in victory.

Strong Bad smiled.  For some reason, Homestar being happy made him feel better too.  Even if he can’t find anything now, and he’ll have to fix things himself until Strong Sad came back, and his clothes are damp, at least he still knows someone funny enough to make him smile.  Maybe that’s why he and Homestar are sort-of-friends. Homestar was funny and made him smile. Strong Bad knew that he needs to stay motivated if he wants to properly get the message across to his brother whenever he got back.  And there wasn’t really anyone left to make fun of twenty-four, seven anymore. Sure, he could make fun of Marzipan or Homestar, or whoever, but they wouldn't be around as often as Strong Sad was. He wouldn’t dare treat Strong Mad like that either, between his sensitivity and his anger issues.  He could make fun of Coach Z, but sometimes Coach Z could be a bit... Weird. He and Bubs were on good terms, so it makes no sense to pummel him. Homsar didn't understand anything, nor could he say or do much, so there goes that option.

Strong Bad just didn't know what to do.  Maybe he should just ask the cheat to look up how dryers work.  Maybe if he learns how to do things by himself, he can make Strong Sad feel useless when he gets home.  Yeah. That's a good idea. And he could get rid of these awful, damp clothes, too.

A/N - I'M NOT DEAD!!! :D  
It's been a while.  School's been rough, haha 😅 But I fully intend to finish this.  I'm still a total sucker for h*r and this ain't going nowhere until I say it does (so it WILL update until it's over!!!!  Yay!!!).  I realized that there was half a chapter sitting in my docs, so I wrote a rough ending to post.  I may extend it later, idk.  There will be more frequent updates over the Summer.  Trust me; Strong Sad is staying on my account as long as I can keep him here.  I really hope to write more h*r fics after this one. :) Stay Tuned! 💙 I love you!

Edit: I also would like to apologize for any misspellings. I sometines type on my phone, so mistakes are quite easy. I went through the doc, and the misspellings I came across were awful. I did my best to make this chapter error free, but you never know.


	5. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirror, Mirror, on the wall...

Strong Sad slept through the greater portion of the day, which was perfectly fine with him. The sun, still glaring at him from it's awful throne, was still hovering well off the horizon, and probably still would be for hours still. Well, whatever. He'd rather explore this house than the cheerful streets of Painting Bunting, USA.  
He walked through the house lightly, softly, as if normal footsteps may cause it to crumble quicker. The front room was very small. There was the couch he slept on, a small coffee table, and a few shelves. He noticed there were items scattered about on the shelves. He looked at them, a photo in a frame, a porcelain figurine of a kitten with a pink, velvet ribbon tied around its neck holding a small bell, and a key. He figured the key was for somewhere else in the house.  
He reached for it, and then hesitated. This key had to have been left alone for many years. Who was he to disturb the peace? “Cut it out! It's just a key!” he reprimanded himself. Carefully, he slipped his fingers around the key. A piece of the house's history, in the palm of his hand. It felt wrong, yet also correct. Like he had passed a test set before; a moral dilemma he had to solve so he could call this house his own. He didn't necessarily want to live in the house, though. Sulk, wander, exist, and haunt were more of the words he'd use. Someplace to use as a hobble, a camp, not a home. Home wasn't what he wanted. He never wanted to be home ever again.  
He explored the house, curious of every nook and cranny. The first room he found was the kitchen. It was bare, as he expected. It wasn’t that big of a deal, though. He would make food appear one way or another. Or not; he didn’t care either way.  
Next, there was a bedroom. The bed in the room look queen size, but it was hard to tell with the white sheet draped over it. There was a closet in the room. A family of mice had made a nest out of some old clothing that was left on the floor when the house was abandoned. They scurried away at the sight of him. He’d let them continue living here, he didn’t mind.  
He walked through the next door way and gasped. Laid out before him was a sort of small library. Obviously, whoever lived here before him valued literature as much as he did. The shelves even still had books on them. Hey, some of these were really good! They had collections of Edgar Allan Poe, The Secret Garden, Pinocchio (the old one that he liked). If he died and was in Heaven, then he knew he was correct that death was great.  
He noticed another room, off to the side. He peeked in, curious. It was a bathroom, small with uneven tiling. There was an old looking bathtub, toilet, and a sink. Above the sink was a dusty mirror. He scanned the room, curious for a towel, or anything else that could aid in cleaning up the house. His eyes landed on the mirror again. There was a message ‘Who are you?’  
Wait, was that there before? He doubted it. He always wanted to be haunted! He wrote ‘I’m Strong Sad’ on the mirror, hopeful for some occurrence. Preferably, one of the spooky caliber.  
The dust resettled over the messages. Written out before him was another message. ‘Hello, Strong Sad! I’m Cassie! Why are you in my house?’  
Wow! He was real life being haunted! He wasn’t one for being happy, but he was certainly scared and excited! ‘I don’t have anywhere else,’ he answered.  
The dust resettled. Cassie responded, ‘Oh. Well, if there’s anything you need, don’t worry. I can help you.’  
‘Thank you!’ Replied Strong Sad. The messages in the mirror reminded him somewhat of an etch-n-sketch. When it was filled, it would get dusty again.  
‘No problem!’ Cassie wrote, ‘Using ghost powers for yourself gets boring after a while. It’s been a while since I’ve had company.’  
So she was a ghost! Awesome! ‘What can ghost powers do?’ He asked.  
‘Oh, all sorts of things! It’s a pretty powerful ability. I’m sure you’ll see over time.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story isn’t dead! I am here!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I hope that I didn't make it too dark for anyone. I know the show is more light-hearted about everything. I just really enjoy writing about dark things. Strong Sad is also my favorite character, which makes writing dark stuff even easier.


End file.
